In an out-of-the-way corner, where the evening’s noise and activity ebbed and flowed a little more remotely, Benito discovered Broderick chewing an unlighted cigar and discussing the probabilities of election with John Geary.  They hailed him cordially, but in a little while Geary drifted off to learn further news of the polls.

“And how is the charming Mrs. Windham?” asked Broderick.

“Well and happy, thank you,” said Benito.  “She loves the old place.  Cannot you dine with us there tonight?”

“With real pleasure,” Broderick returned.  “In this raw, boisterous place a chance to enjoy a bit of home life, to talk with a high-bred woman is more precious than gold.”

Benito bowed.  “It is not often that we have a Senator for a guest,” he returned, smiling.

Broderick placed a hand upon his shoulder almost paternally.  “I hope that is prophetic, Benito,” he said.  “I’m strangely serious about it.  This town has taken hold of me—­your San Francisco.”

They turned to greet Sam Brannan, now a candidate for the ayuntamiento or town council.  “How goes it, Sam?” asked Broderick.

“Well enough,” responded Brannan.  He looked tired, irritated.  “There’s been a conspiracy against us by the rowdy element, but I think we’ve beaten them now.”

Broderick’s brow clouded.  “We need a better government; a more effective system of police, Sam,” he said, striking his first against the table.

“What we need,” said Brannan, “is a citizens’ society of public safety; a committee of vigilance.  And, mark my word, we’re going to have ’em.  There’s more than one who suspects the town was set afire last December.”

“But,” said Broderick, “mob rule is dangerous.  The constituted authorities must command.  They are the ones to uphold the law.”

“But what if they don’t?” Brannan’s aggressive chin was thrust forward.  “What then?”

“They must be made to; but authority should not be overthrown.  That’s revolution.”

“And where, may I ask, would human liberty be today if there’d never been a revolution?” Brannan countered.

Benito left them.  He had no stomach for such argument, though he was to hear much more of it in years to come.  Suddenly he recalled the man who had tried to coach the Kanaka; who had glared so murderously at Mellus.  Those eyes had been familiar; something about them had made him grip his pistol, an impulse at which afterward he had laughed.  But now he knew the reason for that half-involuntary action.  Despite the beard and mustache covering the lower portion of his face completely; despite the low-pulled hat, the disguising ulster, he knew the man.

McTurpin.